Sense Of Betrayal
by Misgiving Writer
Summary: It isn't his fault. Jayfrost didn't ask to have his sense of smell stripped from him as a kit. He didn't ask to be made a warrior but kept inside of the camp. To eat prey he didn't catch. It isn't his fault - but his clan-mates act like it is.


A/N: I'm on a roll this week! This here is another challenge off of the Warriors Challenge Forum. It's called the Light In Life challenge, and was created by Isi Writer. So much fun to complete!

* * *

Sometimes, Jayfrost can hear them talking. Of course, this shouldn't be unusual. It's his sense of smell that has been damaged, not his ability to hear. But these words, muted and hushed, they aren't words that he should be privy to. No, they are secrets, shared between warriors of ThunderClan.

They are directed _at_ him, not towards him.

_"Did you hear? Oakstar only made him a warrior because Firestreak begged him to!_" One she-cat whispers.

Another one lets out a muffled purr of amusement. "_So I heard, Honeypatch. Horrible, isn't it?"_

There should be pity in Mintfrost's voice, not amusement, Jayfrost thinks angrily. He doesn't say a word, though. Just lays where he is, nestled in the very back of his den, and pretends to be asleep.

_"It is."_ Honeypatch whispers, fury evident in her voice. _"The first patrol that he's sent on will all end up dieing, you mark my words!"_

Sometimes, Jayfrost can see them looking. Always just out of the corner of his sharp, yellow eyes. Always having their eyes turned elsewhere by the time he spins around, face hopefully reflecting the anger that he feels.

It sends his stomach churning and sets his blood boiling.

Who are they, after all, to think of him as a nuisance?

As someone that was just a _burden_ to the Clan?

They have never even allowed him to go on a patrol. Never allowed him out to hunt - too dangerous for him alone, Oakstar says, even more unsafe if he is sent out in a group.

They think that he'll get them all killed. Why? Because he can't smell like the rest of them? Ridiculous. Scents don't make someone a warrior. Courage and love does - and, in that moment, Jayfrost is only lacking one of them.

xXx

Sometimes, it feels as though the prey he eats is rotting in his mouth. It isn't of course, and a part of Jayfrost knows that. ThunderClan warriors would never place a piece of crow-food in their fresh-kill pile. Not now, in the middle of green leaf, when prey is so plentiful. When the forest is filled with birdsong every morning and the mice practically throw themselves at warriors' paws.

And he always looks it over before he eats it - more because he that he wouldn't be able to smell the scent of decay even if it were there, always a lurking thought in the back of his mind.

So when he pulls the sparrow from the pile, he sets it on the ground in front of him. Uses one paw to turn it over, ruffling the feathers up, and digging his claws deep into the supple flesh. Tiny trickles of blood seeps from the puncture wound and, idly, he notices that the bird is still warm.

Just brought into the camp.

And it is a healthy bird, no signs of any wounds save the bite around its neck that served as the killing blow. Satisfied, Jayfrost uses his teeth to pull out a mouthfull of the dark feathers. Then he dips his head and takes a bite -

_not once been out of camp_

_can't hunt for himself_

_useless, that one is_

_just taking our prey without anything in return_

- and the once supple flesh turns to ash in his mouth.

xXx

Sometimes, Jayfrost feels the sting of their words as though they were claws ripping through his flesh. He's never felt that in real life but this bruning, searing pain that tears through is exactly what he imagines it to feel like. Or mayb fangs that dig deep into his skin, because this isn't a simple slash-and-leave kind of thing.

It's something that sticks with him, long into the night and even into his dreams.

"How long have you been a warrior now, Jayfrost?" Stormcloud questions, and the derision in his voice is clear.

Jayfrost doesn't want to answer, but he does anyways. The dark grey warrior is senior to him, after all. "Almost five moons now. Why?"

The older tom just nods, dark green eyes closed as if in thought. As if he's actually considering the words that he's about to say and they weren't planned out hours, no, days in advance.

"Five moons. That's an awful long time to be a warrior." Stormclouds says softly, then he opens his eyes and in them there is scorn and resentment and hatred. "How many patrols have you been on? Thirty? Fourty?"

The dark blue-grey fur along Jayfrost's spine rises, his ears flattening against his skull without his effort. It isn't that he isn't expecting that. Stormcloud never has anything kind to say to him. Always brass, always harsh.

Like it's Jayfrost's choice to be confined to the camp, given a warriors titles but not it's privelages.

Like it's his fault that he cannot hunt for his own food nor help to defend his Clan.

Like it's his fault that his nose was infected, stripping him of almost all of his ability to smell.

He was just a kit when it happened, for StarClan's sake! Just a kit, not even old enough to set paw outside of the nursury! But his clan-mates...They just don't care. They see a cat with no visible wounds and no visible crutches, eating the prey the catch and doing nothing in return.

Jayfrost doesn't answer Stormcloud - because, really, when an enemy sinks its claws into your chest, there is nothing you can say in return.

xXx

Someday, he swears that they will regret it. All the horrid things that they say to him and about him, the way they look at him, the way they treat him. That isn't how you treat a fellow clan-mate, after all. No, that's how you treat scum not worthy of your love. Not worthy of your attention.

Jayfrost may not be allowed out of the camp, but that doesn't mean he does nothing all day. There's a small hollow just behind the elders den where no cat goes - and this is where he passes hour after hour, from dawn until dusk, fighting the imaginary cats he pictures before him.

To begin with, they are just faceless creatures.

As he goes, from kit to apprentice, they become ShadowClan and WindClan and RiverClan.

When he recieves his warrior name, when the taunting just gets to be too great, they become his clan-mates.

And when he leaves this nook one night, with those imaginary cats battered and torn, Jayfrost cannot help but wonder if he would feel the same satisfaction from the real thing.


End file.
